


All Men Are Born Free

by LeMousquetaireFemme (missdarcy)



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Freedom, Friendship, Gen, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2018-01-21 04:10:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1536995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missdarcy/pseuds/LeMousquetaireFemme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for 1x03 - Commodities.</p><p>'A swordfight, an angry wife and some loudly faked sex later, Bonnaire’s smirk was – temporarily, at least – wiped off his face, when he landed into a cart which they had had the foresight to commandeer, and the small group headed back towards Paris...' </p><p>Porthos thinks of a world outside France and of true freedom; Athos dwells on the freedom he does not allow himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To Calais

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sadly, I own nothing even remotely related to BBC's Musketeers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘New orders?’
> 
> ‘I’m afraid so’ Athos nodded, now drawing the attention of his other two friends. ‘We are to escort the explorer Bonnaire back to Paris; he has apparently broken a treaty with the Spanish. The King wishes for an… audience… with him.’

It was an overcast day, but the dismal weather which had plagued Paris of late had thankfully beaten a retreat. D’Artagnan and Aramis had taken advantage of the respite, and now that the ground was not treacherously sodden, they were sparring in the yard. Porthos was laughing heartily as he watched from a nearby table; the two mens practice steadily disintegrated into playful wrestling.

Athos, descending down the wooden steps from a meeting with the Captain, heaved a sigh. He really did not want to interrupt. Weather aside, their small group of Musketeers had had precious few peaceful days of late. As it was, D’Artagnan had only just returned to duty after recuperating from the blast injuries he had obtained in the tunnels during the mission with Vadim.

Still; it had to be done – duty called, and they all knew it. He waited a second until both D’Artagnan and Aramis ceased their wrestling, climbing to their feet, chests heaving, before clearing his throat.

Porthos stopped chuckling. Porthos and Aramis frequently jostled for the most jovial of the three ‘inseparables’, a title which Athos never failed to roll his eyes at (and secretly admitting, but only to himself, that he didn’t really mind all that much), but Porthos, it could be said, took his duties the most seriously. He had worked the hardest to get there; he had had the furthest to climb.

‘New orders?’

‘I’m afraid so’ Athos nodded, now drawing the attention of his other two friends. ‘We are to escort the explorer Bonnaire back to Paris; he has apparently broken a treaty with the Spanish. The King wishes for an… audience… with him.’

‘An audience?’ said Aramis, smirking, ‘and is that the term you intend to use with the intrepid Monsieur? I think he’d be rather unpleasantly surprised when he finds out what it means in this context, don’t you?’

D’Artagnan sniggered, and even Athos had to tilt his head in acknowledgement. ‘We leave for Calais in the morning.’

‘I hear talk of Calais?’ their fellow Musketeer, Étienne, rode into the yard, fresh from a mission to Dieppe, and just in time to hear the last part of the conversation.

‘Yes,’ replied Athos, ‘Treville has ordered us there tomorrow.’

Étienne jumped off his horse and swung his Musketeer blue cloak off his shoulder with a flourish. Athos had to stop himself from rolling his eyes – the motion reminded him strongly of Aramis and he only had the energy to deal with one of him today.

‘You’ll want to be avoiding the main road.’ Étienne said. ‘I stopped at an Inn the night before last and heard talk of a mudslide blocking the way in that direction. If it’s true, they’ll not have been able to clear it yet – you’ll have to take the scenic route.’

Athos managed to thank him for the information, and pass it on to the other three before retreating to his lodgings, bitterness rising up in his throat.

In truth, he could not believe that he had made it so long – five years with the Musketeers and the main route into Calais had never been blocked… Five years of avoiding the other route to the port town – the route which would take him within two miles of his lands at La Fère. The Musketeers gave him as much freedom as Athos was willing to allow himself, but he still lived in a prison, chased by the ghosts of his past… and he was not sure he could continue to evade those ghosts if he returned to the place that birthed them.

He opened a bottle of wine with his teeth and took a long swig. God willing, the trip would be uneventful and he could make it to Calais and back without incident, without any mention of La Fère. 

 _But then,_ he thought ruefully, _when is anything ever that simple?_

* * *

The rumours of the main route to Calais were confirmed to be true the next morning when they reached the fork in the road where the two roads converged, and so they headed along the alternative route, Athos more taciturn than usual and resolutely ignoring the milestone indicating the distance to La Fère.

To his relief, though, they made it to Calais without incident, and Athos forced his demons away for one more night as he sat with his friends and kept an eye on Bonnaire, who was holding court in an inn near the docks and, helpfully, drawing rather a lot of attention to himself.

A swordfight, an angry wife and some loudly faked sex later, Bonnaire’s smirk was – temporarily, at least – wiped off his face, when he landed into a cart which they had had the foresight to commandeer, and the small group headed back towards Paris.

D’Artagnan rode slightly ahead; Aramis and Athos fell to the back. Porthos was driving the cart and keeping an eye on Bonnaire, whom they were all sure would try to make a run for it at some point during the journey, given his loud and repeated protests that _‘really, gentlemen, I have got business elsewhere, this is most inconvenient…’._   

For the time being, though, he was compliant, sharing his exotic liquor – _better than Athos’ brandy,_ Porthos thought - and telling stories of his travels around Africa.

‘I'm guessing your ancestry owes something to those regions’ said Bonnaire after a while, with a sidelong glance to the Musketeer at the reins. 

Porthos, had, in spite of himself had been enjoying hearing about life outside of France. When he was a child in the Court of Miracles, all tales of life elsewhere had intrigued him: he supposed now, that it was a curiosity which had inspired him to leave the Court and better himself.

Still, this last comment caused him to immediately raise his guard. This would not be the first time he had been judged on his heritage.

‘Maybe,’ he replied cautiously. No use leaping down the man’s throat when he had to bare his company until Paris, which was still some distance away.

Bonnaire either ignored his wariness or did not pick up on the change in tone, for he continued undeterred. ‘Did they come to France as slaves?’

Porthos hesitated. He could detect no scorn or judgement in the other man’s voice, but that was not to say that there was none, and in any case this was something of a touchy subject.

‘My mother. Moved to Paris when she was freed.’ he said shortly.

‘I've known many freed slaves who prospered’ replied Bonnaire, obviously believing himself to sound encouraging.

Porthos snorted. ‘Yeah? Well she didn't. I was fending for myself since the age of five.’

 ‘Still, you.’ said Bonnaire, awkwardly. ‘From the streets of Paris to the King's elite regiment? Quite a journey.’

Porthos came back with some inane response, but pride flared up in his chest. It had been a journey indeed, and it was one he was immensely proud of.

 _But,_ he thought, images of Africa running through his mind, _why stop there? Why stop travelling?_

They pulled up next to an empty barn for a rest stop.


	2. The Comte de la Fère

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He thought of Porthos, and then he thought of Thomas, and he knew that he would have to go back, if only to prevent the loss of another brother. He could do nothing for Thomas now, but he would not have Porthos’ death rest on his shoulders also.

Their rest stop did not turn out to be as restful as they had expected.

Aramis heard it first. The clatter of metal from somewhere to his right. He turned suspiciously.

‘What is it?’ Athos asked, hand automatically going to the hilt of his sword.

‘What’s going on?’ Bonnaire asked Porthos, who waved a hand to shut him up as Athos and d’Artagnan drew their swords. 

‘Come out and state your business!’ called Aramis.

Unbidden, Athos felt his lips twitch. ‘That was very formal.’

‘I like to be polite,’ returned Aramis with a grin.

Of course, that was the calm before the storm. After that, a man ran out, brandishing an axe, and was promptly shot. And then, all hell broke loose, the previous silence broken by the sound of gunfire and the clash of steel against steel; yells of ‘Get Bonnaire!’

‘Porthos, stay with him!’ yelled Athos over his shoulder, as he engaged one of the attackers. Bonnaire, he noticed, had crawled underneath the wagon and even as he concentrated on not being run through with his opponent’s sword, the fact that the supposedly intrepid explorer was actually an utter coward did amuse him for a moment or two.

‘Porthos!’

A yell from Aramis was enough to rapidly cut his amusement short, indicating as it did that someone had landed a blow – a blow which he could only pray would be minor and not need them to find any kind of shelter - but he did not have time to look, because then a rotund man emerged and called off the attackers. Bonnaire, having obviously seen fit to crawl out from his place of safety at this new development, introduced the man as Paul Meunier, his _business partner,_ of all people!

‘On the face of it, I’d say your partnership isn’t going well,’ said Aramis from behind him, unknowingly echoing his thoughts.

Considering how furiously Meunier’s men had been trying to obtain custody of Bonnaire not five minutes earlier, the man himself acquiesced fairly quickly when Athos insisted that they could not hand the man over to him. Later, Athos almost wished he had put up more of a fight when he turned around and surveyed the scene before him.

Porthos was on the ground, writhing and moaning, clearly in a lot of pain. Aramis, hands blood stained was tending to him.

‘Will I lose my arm?’ Porthos gritted out.

‘No,’ said Aramis. Athos breathed a sigh of relief and then abruptly inhaled again when he heard the other man continue, under his breath _‘…but you might lose your life.’_

‘That bad?’ Athos asked Aramis, already knowing the answer.

‘It requires needlework, and soon’ he replied.

‘Will he make it to Paris?’

Aramis did not even need to open his mouth to answer that question – Porthos did it for him, letting out a rare scream that made Athos flinch.

Aramis answered the question anyway. ‘He won’t make it to the next village, unless I get a chance to sew up that wound.’ His mouth formed a grim line.

It was exactly what he had not wanted to hear. Athos’ mind began to race. _I cannot go back, I cannot, I shall not._ He was quite sure he would lose his tenuous grip on reality if he went back to La Fère.

He would see Anne in every room – Thomas in every other. For five long years his body had gone through the motions – drink, sleep, fight, repeat - but his mind was always in his own personal prison at La Fère. How could it not be? His brother murdered by his wife, his wife, swinging from a tree – _their tree!_ He could not allow himself to live freely in the moment with his friends so long as he carried the guilt on his shoulders. It was his penance. Even so, it was bad enough that nigh on every waking moment his thoughts rested there. No. He would not go back. Not physically, at least.

D’Artagnan, of course, broke this chain of thoughts when he posed the inevitable question.

‘Do you think we should leave the road and look for shelter?’

‘Not here.’ The response was immediate. Two faces snapped around to stare at him incredulously and he belatedly realised that the words had come from his own mouth. But he was resolute. ‘We'll ride on for a few miles and then find somewhere.’

‘Porthos isn’t fit to ride anywhere.’ Aramis’ words were crystal clear, but they could not break through the fog that had descended on Athos, who turned instead to D’Artagnan.

‘Get him on the cart.’

Aramis lost all composure. ‘ _Didn't you hear what I said?_ ’ he choked out, aghast. ‘If we don't operate soon, he'll _die_!’

Athos was lost to his despair, and instead of recognising the folly of his own words, found himself growing annoyed at Aramis’ temerity.  ‘We'll wait until its dark’ he said firmly, enunciating each word clearly so that it would sink in and stop Aramis’ arguments.

It did not work. Aramis was enraged, and seized Athos by the collar. ‘What's the matter with you? Don't you care about Porthos?’ 

Athos paused as the words made themselves known in his consciousness.

_Don’t you care about Porthos?_

He thought of Porthos, and then he thought of Thomas, and it hit him like a musket ball to the chest. he would _have_ to go back, his own wishes be damned, if only to prevent the loss of another brother. He could do nothing for Thomas now, but he would not have Porthos’ death rest on his shoulders also.

His shoulders sagged. ‘All right. I know somewhere... nearby.’  

He turned around and walked to his horse, ignoring D’Artagnan’s incredulous ‘Why didn't you mention it before?’ and the look he just knew Aramis would be wearing.

He’d need a mouthful or two of the brandy in his saddlebags if he was to return.

It sat in his belly like the fires of his own personal hell.

* * *

Aramis was not sure he could name any one of the tumult of emotions he was currently feeling, the list was just too long. If he had to try, he would start the list with nervousness – nervous that Porthos would lose too much blood before they got to wherever Athos was leading them – and anger, with Athos for not wanting to stop in the first place.

Athos had joined the Musketeers shortly before Savoy, and although the three inseparables had gravitated towards each other, becoming firm friends fairly quickly, Athos had never really opened up to the other two in the same way that they had to him. He drank like all the sins of the citizens of France were his to bare alone, as he tried to escape some event in his past that Aramis did not even believe that Captain Treville was fully aware of, if Athos had told him anything at all.

Logic dictated that wherever they were going now had some connection to that horrific event – looking around him as he rode through a fairly nondescript village, he could see people looking up towards Athos, who had adopted an unusually regal pose, with varying expressions of recognition. In any case, never before had Athos erred when any musketeer was injured.

But that was not to excuse his attitude this time. Athos was – usually – a good friend, but Aramis and Porthos were particularly close, kindred spirits, if you like, and Aramis knew that his friendship with Athos would be permanently destroyed if Porthos succumbed to his injuries because of Athos' unexplained fit of stubborness.

For that reason, Aramis was currently nurturing the anger that had descended over him, rather than letting it dissipate. It was not really in his nature - he was a forgiving soul, but he was not inclined to make any judgement yet until he saw where they were going and until he could take a needle to the deep wound the axe had left in Porthos’ shoulder.

When they eventually arrived to their mysterious place of shelter, which turned out to be a chateau of reasonable size, Athos visibly had to steel himself before he swung open the doors, and Aramis wondered anew what had happened to him that was so unspeakable. Athos had never dropped so much as a hint to his background, although his accent and his knowledge suggested that he was of some high birth, a man with an education.

Even so, when D’Artagnan questioned him about the place, and Athos confessed to owning it, Aramis could not help but be surprised, noting, with fond amusement, that even Porthos had found the energy to raise his head off of the table on which they had placed him to stare at his friend in  bemused astonishment.

His surprise was such that he found himself asking Athos questions, which he usually avoided in the knowledge that they would go unanswered, or, if Athos was particularly far into his cups, trigger a particularly bad bout of self-loathing.

‘You were the Comte de la Fère? A son of the nobility?’ 

Athos nodded in reply, and Aramis could not help but grin as he asked about the number of servants it had taken to keep the chateau in good working order – order which it clearly had not seen in some while – five years, if Aramis had to make a knowing guess.

The levity continued for a short while, Aramis’ relief overwhelming his anger as he finally got his hands on his patient and asked Athos to knock Porthos out, causing Bonnaire to reel backwards with a horrified, ‘dear god, what kind of brutes are you?’

But it did not last. Perhaps two hours later, Athos stalked back into the room where they had made their base, made an abrupt enquiry to Porthos after his health, and asked in an unusually surly tone if Porthos could travel.

It was far too soon for Porthos to be moving anywhere, really, and the doctor in Aramis wanted to recommend that they delay their journey back to Paris by at least one more day so that Porthos’ wound could begin to knit.

He could tell by Athos’ countenance, however, that such an answer would not be borne, and so he said, grudgingly, ‘if he has to,’ looking pointedly at the unspoken leader of their group, who predictably ignored the unspoken _but he really oughtn’t,_ declaring instead;

‘Then we'll leave in the morning.’

Aramis sat back in frustration, and in his renewed ire at Athos, missed Bonnaire’s next comment.

’Well I don't think you’ll mind spending the night here, will you Athos? Must bring back all sorts of memories?’

Nor did he see the dark look that Athos threw over his shoulder in reply.

* * *

Now that he was back in his prison, Athos could not prevent himself from increasing the torture, wandering around listlessly from room to room, remembering what had been, what could have been and what was not to be.

D’Artagnan found him like that in the portrait room. Athos turned to leave – he had married the woman who murdered his brother and then executed his wife – he did not deserve to have his brothers, much less their company.

When they found out the truth, they would not want to associate with him - why should they?  The one piece of self-preservation he allowed himself was that the truth should not come out. That way Aramis, and Porthos ( _Porthos, who his own misery had nearly killed today_ ) and, more recently, D’Artagnan would have no cause to leave him. It was selfish of him, he thought, but he would not give them up now.

Thoughts which plagued him only in the darkest of moments were assaulting him in full force now, and Athos would not project them onto the others if he could help it - but D’Artagnan stopped him from running to seek solitude.

‘Hey, hey - what happened here?’ asked the young Gascon, looking at – of all the pictures in the room! – the picture of his wife that he had slashed with his dagger in alcohol induced frenzy on the night of her death.

Of course, he could not say that.

‘Vandals, I suppose,’ he supplied dully.  

D’Artagnan turned to the picture of Thomas next. Obviously.  

‘And who's this?’ he asked curiously.

‘My younger brother, Thomas. Everyone’s favourite,’ he replied bitterly, immediately chastising himself for such uncharitable thoughts.  Thomas, at least, would not have made the same mistakes he did. He had not, confronting his wife with her crimes, and paying the ultimate price for it.

‘What happened to him?’ asked D’Artagnan.

‘He’s dead.’ Said Athos, walking over to the window and looking out at the tree from which his wife had swung.

‘I'm sorry,’ said D’Artagnan.

 _So am I,_ thought Athos, lost again in the memories that haunted him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very Athos centric, this one. I'll explore Porthos a lot more in the next chapter.


	3. Not a Crime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This struck a chord with Porthos. He had been born with very little in the way of opportunity, and life had taught him that you took chances where you saw them. Who was to say that he wouldn’t be better off taking his chances in the colonies?

Aramis insisted that he rest.

In any case, with his shoulder injured as it was, there was not really a lot that Porthos could do except to sit and think. He thought about his childhood in the Court of Miracles, and his desire to pull himself up out of the dirt, to better himself.

He’d done that, of course. He’d overcome a lot of obstacles to be where he was today, and he had finally managed to leave Paris and see other places – other places in France, but other places nonetheless.

But he kept coming back to the question that he had been started to ask himself just before they had been ambushed.

_Why stop there?_

Porthos, as a general rule, enjoyed life as a musketeer. He had a better life, food on the table, and a comradeship similar in ways to that he had enjoyed with Flea and Charon in the court, although this was a brotherhood with honour, which had most certainly been lacking when he was a child.

That was not to say, however, that it could not be a hard life. He had been injured more times than he could count, including now. His shoulder was hurting something awful, and he couldn’t deny that a life which didn’t involve various sharp objects slicing him open on a far too frequent basis sounded attractive. It was in this context that Bonnaire inadvertently picked up the trail of his thoughts with his choice of conversation.

“I found my own Utopia, a little piece of heaven called San Christophe” he said, wistfully. “And I'll farm tobacco there, and I'll retire... fat and oversexed.”

D’Artagnan cut in. “Farming's no utopia, Bonnaire. It's all hard graft, I can assure you.”

“No, no,” replied Bonnaire, “labour is cheap. And I'll manage the whole thing from my porch with one beauty sitting on my lap and another mopping my brow.”

“Sounds like Paradise.” remarked Aramis, who had been sitting nearby. Porthos had to agree.

“There are opportunities for men like you in the colonies. You could be rich. You should join me. All of you.” said Bonnaire.

This struck a chord with Porthos. He had been born with very little in the way of opportunity, and life had taught him that you took chances where you saw them. Who was to say that he wouldn’t be better off taking his chances in the colonies?

The more he thought about it, the more he wondered if he would be satisfied, simply stopping with the Musketeers for the rest of his abled-bodied days. He enjoyed the life, very much. It offered him freedom of a sort that he had not known in the court; of the sort that he doubted his mother had every really known, for all that she was a “freed” slave.

“Maybe I'll take you up on that,” he grunted, ignoring the knowing look that Aramis sent in his direction.

For a few hours more, Porthos sat there, dozing on and off, and trying to ignore the insistent throbbing of his shoulder. The others were out – somewhere, doing what, he wasn’t sure, so he tried making conversation with Bonnaire once more to break the silence. The man was sat at a small table, pouring over some large pieces of parchment that he had kept close to him since leaving Calais.

“What are you doing?” asked Porthos.

“Just planning my next trip and I’m making sure that the load is evenly distributed” replied the other man distractedly.

Porthos heaved himself to his feet. “I wouldn’t mind taking a look. I like teaching myself new things”

“Ah. So you're an autodidact?” Porthos stopped short at the use of the word, and Bonnaire clarified; “It means self-taught man. Like myself, actually.”

Porthos made a noise of agreement – ever since he had been a child, Porthos had been curious to _know_ about things. It was why he had wanted to join the Musketeers. It was probably why the idea of the colonies intrigued him further.

But as he made his way to the table, Bonnaire pulled a face like a trapped animal and hurriedly began to roll up the scrolls.

“Another time, perhaps. Forgive me - my eyes are tired now. I'm just such a martyr to detail!” he blustered.

Porthos narrowed his eyes. He was not so enamoured by the idea of exploration that he was not suspicious of the other man.

He _was_ a musketeer, after all.

That was why, when Maria Bonnaire turned up and everyone else rushed outside to deal with the latest distraction, he took the opportunity to investigate the plans that Bonnaire had carelessly left lying about. It wasn’t like he’d be any help with his shoulder, anyway.

He took the scrolls out of their tube, and rolled them flat on the table.

It took a second for Porthos to actually realise what it was he was looking at.

 _People._ People, row on row of people, packed on each deck like _animals,_ being taken and enslaved against their will for the profit of people like Bonnaire. Porthos was overcome by nausea and sat down heavily on the seat the Bonnaire had abandoned. He was no explorer, he was a slave trader! He was horrified.

Horrified at Bonnaire, arrogantly telling him, when asking about Porthos’ heritage the morning prior that he had known many freed slaves who prospered when he was one of those who enslaved them in the first place.

Horrified at _himself_ for considering Bonnaire’s tales of his ‘utopia’ to represent what? Something beyond soldiering, some kind of real freedom! Freedom that he was taking from thousands of others, just to make some empty profit.

Unbidden, Bonnaire’s words from earlier crept into his mind.

_“…labour is cheap. And I'll manage the whole thing from my porch...”_

Oh, he’d liked the sound of that, hadn’t he? Porthos couldn’t believe, now, that the man had been _so_ arrogant that he had told the son of a slave that there were opportunities for men like him in the colonies.

And he’d considered taking those opportunities! Abandoning his brothers on the words of a slave trader. He was disgusted with himself. It was irrelevant, now, whether or not he ever would actually have done it. He’d considered it. That was bad enough. 

Porthos started when footsteps echoed behind him, and he turned around to see his friends and Bonnaire re-enter the room. He did not even have the presence of mind to check that whatever had happened outside had gone alright, and that none of his friends were injured. As soon as he laid eyes on Emile Bonnaire, a red mist descended over him.

“You lying, filthy SWINE!” he bellowed, punching Bonnaire as hard as he could with his diminished strength, which, he absently noted, was still quite hard.

Of course his friends, who had no idea what he had discovered, tried to restrain him.

“What are you doing?!” cried D’Artagnan.

“I can explain!” Bonnaire snivelled at the same time.

Porthos was still fighting to get out of D’Artagnan and Athos’ collective grip.

“Get off me!”

“Porthos!”

There was a loud ripping sound, and Porthos yelled in agony as he felt Aramis’ careful needlework rip, but even the pain could not stop him, he would get to Bonnaire and punch his lights out, and that was as a minimum. 

Athos went into leader mode. “PORTHOS, ENOUGH! WHAT’S GOING ON?!”

The noise was enough to restore a little clarity to Porthos’ mind, and he pointed shakily to the offending scrolls which were now on the floor.

“That’s Bonnaire’s cargo.” he gritted out.

It took a lot to make Porthos this upset. Aramis, concerned at Porthos’ distress, went over to take a look, and immediately understood what had got his friend so riled up. He looked back at his friend with immense sympathy in his heart.

“Men, women, children... it's a slave ship.” Porthos said hoarsely.

“The drawings make it look far worse than it really is,” said Bonnaire thickly through his bloody nose.

Porthos was disgusted that he would even make such a claim, and pushed D’Artagnan, who still had a grip on his arm, out of the way. He knew he’d be in agony from his ripped stitches later on, but right now he had enough adrenaline to carry him through.

“Look at this one.” He took a drawing from Aramis’ slack hands. “People, packed on the deck, like fish at the market. I envied him, boasting about his plans to farm tobacco. Boasted that labour is cheap out there. It isn't cheap labour is it, Bonnaire, its stolen labour, stolen lives!” he exclaimed.

“I am not a prejudiced man. This is business, strictly business.” Bonnaire returned, weakly.

“The business of misery and suffering.” replied Porthos resolutely.

Aramis’ heart broke for his friend. He knew that Porthos’ mother had come to France, a freed slave, and he looked down at the drawings again, feeling sick in the knowledge that had things been different, Porthos could have been one of the poor, nameless souls featured in such a drawing, his  freedom was stolen from him. He could not, however, disagree with what Athos said next, no matter how he felt.

“It is our duty to protect him.” said Athos.

“…and turn a blind eye to his crimes?” Porthos was aghast.

Athos heaved a sigh. He had the same knowledge as Aramis did, and he too felt for Porthos. It did not make what he had to say any easier, but this was what he had signed on for when he became a musketeer, and like it or not, Porthos had done the same.

“It is our duty to protect him”

Porthos looked positively betrayed. Athos felt awful. In the space of nearly twenty four hours he had nearly condemned his friend to death and now he was being completely unsupportive to a friend who had been an absolute rock for him in five years with the musketeers.

He heaved a sigh. “Slavery is cruel and disgusting but... it's not a crime.”

All the wind went out of Porthos’ sails. “I heard stories about those ships as a child. Oh, hellish stories. Know why they're shackled, hmm? To stop 'em jumping overboard. Yeah, cos that's better than watching your friends, your family, your children, die of starvation and sickness and hopelessness…” he trailed off.

Aramis swallowed. “You'll get your justice, Porthos. The king will see to that.” 


	4. Notions of Freedom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They were supposed to be talking about leaving for Paris, but none of the three had actually said anything in the past ten minutes, and so D’Artagnan, deciding that he may as well do something if they were content to sit and mope, stood up...

When Porthos' anger had sunk to a level at which he had the presence of mind to enquire as to what the disturbance outside had actually been, he discovered that Bonnaire’s wife had turned up in an attempt for her husband to escape, and that events and other persons unknown had caused that same woman to meet an unfortunate and early demise.

The Musketeers all sat down in one corner away from their charge and began to talk of strategy – primarily, what they ought to do to make it back to Paris without further incident, thought Athos, pinching the bridge of his nose.

God, he needed a drink. He was seeing Anne in every room, and something felt... off about the whole place. As things stood, if he never returned to La Fère, it would still be too soon.

* * *

All three inseparables had been knocked off kilter by their experiences of the past few days, mused D’Artagnan, looking at Athos rubbing his temples. Ostensibly, they were talking strategy, but little in the way of planning was actually being done.

Porthos was sat in silence, his shoulder evidently still causing him physical pain and, he’d bet, recent revelations causing him more mental anguish than Porthos would ever care to admit.

Aramis looked… conflicted, D’Artagnan supposed. He kept shooting worried glances towards Porthos, who was completely oblivious of his friends concern, and irritated glances towards Athos, who looked equally oblivious, but was probably fully aware of the eye daggers being sent in his direction.

And Athos… D’Artagnan may have been the youngest and the newest member of the group, but it had been clear almost from day one that Athos nursed some painful secret, and given his stiff demeanour on having to leave for Calais by the more scenic route, his odd, reluctant attitude to find shelter after Porthos was initially injured, and, well, basically everything about his countenance since they reached the chateau, he was willing to bet all the sous in his purse that this place had something to do with that secret.

They were supposed to be talking about leaving for Paris, but none of the three had actually said anything in the past ten minutes, and so D’Artagnan, deciding that _he_ may as well do something if they were content to sit and mope, stood up.

Athos looked up. “Where are you going? We’ve not finished planning yet.”

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise that sitting in silence was conducive to making an efficient plan.”

Aramis looked up at this, surprised at their newest friend’s forwardness, although he _had_ been becoming bolder and more at ease in their group as the weeks rolled by.

“No,” said Athos after a moment, “you’re right. I suppose the first thing we must do is bury Madame Bonnaire..?” he trailed off, looking at Aramis and Porthos with a surprisingly unsure expression.

Porthos nodded his agreement to the plan, got up and strode over to where Bonnaire was also sat moping, on the sofa. (D’Artagnan could not help but roll his eyes again. What a merry party they made).

“Get up!” Porthos barked, “You’re coming with me.”

Bonnaire looked around nervously at the other three, who made no moves to indicate the contrary.

“Don’t be an idiot, I’m not gonna do anything,” said Porthos. “ _You’ve_ got a hole to dig.”

* * *

Porthos stood next to the growing mound of earth by the grave site, and watched Bonnaire sweat as he dug with some small degree of satisfaction, until he realised that he was stood in a stance probably very similar to that which Bonnaire would adopt if he ever made it to his tobacco farm in 'utopia', a thought which promptly caused the bile to rise back up into his throat.

Bonnaire broke the silence.

“Look. If I don’t buy them someone else will and I'm offering by far the better life - believe me.” he said.

Porthos looked at him disgustedly. He had made his feelings quite clear on this subject and had vainly hoped that Bonnaire was a man who knew when to shut up.  He didn’t really want to dignify the comment with a response, but he couldn’t help himself.

“Men are born free. No one has the right to make slaves of them.”

“Yes,” said Bonnaire, exasperation creeping into his own tone now, “but the world isn't driven by romantic notions of freedom, is it? It’s driven by commerce, and I'm a trader. That's all. I deal in commodities.”

_Romantic notions of freedom._

Porthos scoffed inwardly – there shouldn’t, he thought, be any _notions_ of freedom, just the one definition of the concept. And it should be a concept available to everyone. But he was weary of this discussion, and aloud, protested only that a man is not a commodity.

Bonnaire stopped digging, and turned to look at him with an unreadable expression on his face.

“Oh, in Africa, he is.”

* * *

With Madame Bonnaire safely in her resting place, Aramis and Porthos went back in to gather their things. It was clear that Porthos would get no further time to rest, following his wound, and so neither saw any point in delaying their departure for Paris further.

Now, Aramis was watching D’Artagnan out of the window. Arrangements needed to be made to start their journey, and despite the fact that Aramis had known Athos much longer, D’Artagnan seemed to have formed somewhat of a rapport with him, and so Aramis had sent him over to the tree where Athos had resumed his moping – a bottle in hand, Aramis noted unsurprised – to find out what was going on. He respected Athos very much, but Aramis still found himself in somewhat of a fit of pique over the way Athos had reacted to Porthos’ injury yesterday.  It was, he supposed, something they needed to talk about before they could declare the issue resolved, and what with one thing happening after another, they just hadn’t had the time to do that yet.

D’Artagnan came back looking distinctly disgruntled.

“He told us to go on,” said he.

“What do you mean?” said Aramis. “Surely – “

“He’s not coming with us,” said D’Artagnan, screwing his face up in his own confusion. “Said he had an errand to run in the village and that he’d follow on later.”

Aramis pursed his lips. “I cannot _believe_ him, sometimes!” he exclaimed. “I told him, I told him last night that I’d really only want to move Porthos if it was absolutely necessary. Now we’re to go back to Paris, and he is staying here? Why do we not all just stay one more night? It would do Porthos the world of good, given that I have literally just had to redo my needlework!”

D’Artagnan, bless him, did not really have any response to hand for this rant other than to shrug his shoulders. Aramis turned around and looked helplessly at Porthos, who clearly had not been paying attention to the conversation, still thinking about the plans he had found, quite understandably, in Aramis’ opinion, given what little he knew about Porthos’ mother.

Still, that Porthos was being _quite_ so introspective and taciturn (a word they usually would not use in relation to him), was, he thought, a matter for concern. Aramis could read Porthos like a book, and right now the bigger man was not only thinking about Bonnaire’s interest in slavery, but he was also beating himself up about something. Knowing his friend, if Aramis had to make a guess, he would say that Bonnaire’s tales of ‘paradise’ had caught Porthos’ interest more than he would ever confess aloud.

Still, he could not talk to his friend about it while they still had Bonnaire in their custody, and so this was yet another conversation that he resolved to shelve - at least until they got to Paris and had a moment alone.

Right now, he had a decision to make. Do as Athos said – which he ought to really, since he had no doubt that his dour friend had framed the words as an order – or go outside and call him on it.

He went outside – but Athos had already disappeared.

Aramis marched in and gave the word to saddle up. Oh, he and Athos would be having words when they got back to Paris. Aramis understood how past memories could affect a man - his own past was not, after all, untainted - but Athos' behaviour was putting Porthos at risk,  _again._ If Porthos got an infection... Aramis didn't know what he'd do if that happened, but he did know that this could not continue.

* * *

Athos, upon returning from the village and with no more musketeers to keep him sober, headed straight down to the old wine cellar, brought out a case of some vintage, he didn’t much care what, and proceeded to get very, very, drunk.

The next morning, he would not remember much, just blurry chunks of the night prior, which he supposed that would not be solely due to the hangover, but also due to the large bang on the head that his _wife_ had kindly given him.

He remembered throwing a bottle at his own portrait, angered by his face looking out of the frame so serenely… Athos had no right to be serene. His brother’s death was on his head. It was why he never ‘let go’. The law would not imprison him, so he would punish himself.

He remembered ending up in his – their – old bedroom, watching as his wife – his _wife!_ – strolled through the halls, casually setting fire to the place.

How had she survived? He would never be free of his secret, but would he ever be free of her? Just contemplating that made his head hurt abominably.

...he remembered thinking that he was going to die there, and wondering for a split second if she was going to stay and burn with him, for she was a fugitive really, and he supposed they would both find freedom in death.

...he remembered D’Artagnan, who had followed his instincts rather than his orders, and who had turned back to La Fère halfway to Paris, rescuing him from the flames.

…and he remembered the whole, sorry story, finally leaving his lips, for the first time - ever.

D’Artagnan dwelled on what his friend had said the whole way back to Paris the next morning.

“IT WAS MY DUTY!” he had cried out in anguish, “IT WAS MY DUTY TO UPHOLD THE LAW! My duty to condemn the woman I loved to death. I've clung to the belief that I had no choice… five years learning to live in a world without her. What do I do now?”

The last words had been broken, despondent, and D’Artagnan had had no answer for his friend, much as he was desperate to give one. All he had been able to do was sit there as they watched the Chateau burn, and offer silent comfort for as long as Athos would accept it, which he knew would not be long.

He was right, of course. When Athos had regained consciousness, and sobriety, the next morning, the walls had been drawn right back up.  

The ride back to Paris was silent.

As they re-entered the city, Athos hung back and gestured for D’Artagnan to do the same.

“D'Artagnan,” he said eventually. “Say nothing to the others, of what happened.”

He felt guilty even as the words left his lips, feeling as though he was imprisoning his brother by sealing his lips with his black secret. But he would not, could not confess it to the others.

D’Artagnan looked conflicted, which worsened his guilt, but to his relief, acquiesced.

“You have my word.”


	5. God Speed, Bonnaire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Athos was not an eloquent man, and he was not sure he could apologise in words for his behaviour of the last few days. But perhaps – perhaps there was something he could do to make amends…

Porthos had been silent nearly the whole ride back to Paris, which had to Aramis’ relief, been interrupted only by D’Artagnan’s sudden decision to wheel around and ride back in the other decision two hours after they’d set off. He’d yelled an explanation over his shoulder, but it had been lost in the wind and the others had had no choice but to continue.

And still, Aramis had not had a chance to talk to his friend and try to bring him out of his funk. For now, he settled on using humour to break up the thick tension, temporary a solution as he knew it was.

And so Porthos and Aramis had delightedly been exchanging suggestions of Bonnaire’s impending fate from the moment he went into his audience with the cardinal. The door banged shut behind him and the ideas started flowing, each one becoming slightly more macabre than the last and ever more ridiculous.

Aramis had to suppress a little jig of glee when Porthos finally managed to summon a smile, and so when Bonnaire came out, looking slightly nervous, neither of them quite had it in them to supress their merriment.

“Execution?” asked Porthos sounding inappropriately delighted. “Imprisonment?”

“Whipping?” chimed in Aramis, making a ‘wh-psh’ sound as he did so. 

Bonnaire still looked nervous, but, Porthos realised with a jolt, it was not because something bad had happened to him, but because something _good_ had happened, and neither he nor Aramis would be happy to hear it.

“Not quite, no.” he said, bewilderment creeping into his tone. Apparently even he couldn’t believe that he had got away with it. “No, the cardinal and I have set up a joint stock company together. He's agreed to invest 10,000 livre of his own money and I'm to set up tobacco plantations across the Antilles…”

Porthos had never quite managed to supress the nausea that had come over him when he had found the plans back at Athos’ chateau. Now, he just felt resigned.

“These plantations... they'll be worked by slaves?” he said, knowing the answer before the words had even left his lips but needing, for whatever reason, to hear it from the man himself, a kind of self-flagellation, he mused idly.

 “Yes, yes of course they will. I'm actually off to Le Havre - to charter a ship.”

Aramis heart had sunk the moment he had realised what had happened. It had not been his promise to make, but he had assured Porthos that the King would dispense due justice, and he had believed it. _This?_ This was really putting salt onto Porthos’ wound, and there was little that he could do about it.

He swung a faux-friendly arm over Bonnaire’s shoulder. “I thought you were out of the slavery business?”

Bonnaire had been slowly creeping towards the exit during this conversation.

“Circumstances, my friends. Adapt to circumstances. It’s really all you can... do. Please, if you wouldn't mind…”

And then he was gone.

Porthos heaved a sigh, and looked miserably at his feet.

“I’m sorry, my friend,” offered Aramis.

“Don’t.” muttered Porthos in reply. “S’not – it’s not your fault.”

“No, but I am sorry all the same,” he said.

Porthos looked up at him, eyes unreadable, but said nothing.

“Something else bothers you, Porthos.” said Aramis when it became clear that his friend was not going to break the silence. “Won’t you tell me what it is?”

Porthos made an abortive gesture with his hand, and turned instead towards door, muttering about the stable hand with whom they had left their horses. Aramis’ hand, with all the reflexes of a skilled sharpshooter, shot out and landed on Porthos’ shoulder, stopping him from making his escape.

“Porthos?” he asked questioningly. “Come now, brother. Confide in me.”

Aramis of course had already had his suspicions about what exactly was bothering Porthos, and his suspicions were confirmed when Porthos flinched at the word brother.

“Ah,” said he, “that’s what I thought.”

“What are you talking about?” Porthos returned, shrugging Aramis’ hand off his shoulder in irritation.

“Tales of paradise captured your imagination, you thought of life outside of the regiment, and now you feel as though he had betrayed your brothers and do not believe you deserve to be referred to by the term.” Aramis returned in a sing song voice, hoping that his tone would stop Porthos from interpreting the words as condemnation.

Porthos looked at him, astounded for a moment, although he was not really sure why – Aramis was quite possibly the most perceptive man he knew. Exhaling, he leaned back against the wall, not sure what he was supposed to say in reply.

“You know that’s not true, Porthos.” Aramis finished quietly.

“Isn’t it?”

“No! There’s nothing wrong with wanting to know what else is out there, Porthos!”

Porthos looked at him, conflicted. The whole way back to Paris, he had been thinking about this over and over again. He had fought his way out of the gutter and built a life he was proud of, a life where he had brothers, a life where he had honour, a life that offered him freedom to _be_. What kind of a man was he, to consider throwing all that away because of some pretty words by a man who _enslaved_ people? Surely he should have needed a better reason than that?

Aramis was only half right - he had been punishing himself for thinking of leaving, not just because it felt like he was betraying his brothers, but because he felt, in a way, like he had betrayed himself. But Aramis was looking at him now with such resolute trust written across his countenance, that he could not help but be reassured by his words.

He looked out of the door through which Bonnaire had exited, and let loose a long breath. Aramis, recognising that Porthos had accepted what he had said, ushered him towards the garrison. Just  because he had stopped punishing himself – for the present – did not mean that Porthos would not continue to dwell upon the fact that duty had required he give a slave trader his protection.

* * *

When Porthos and Aramis got back into the yard, D’Artagnan was already there. Porthos disappeared inside the garrison kitchen and re-emerged with wine; Aramis sat down and updated him on what had just occurred between Bonnaire and the Cardinal.

Aramis had just come to the end of his tale and was about to question D’Artagnan on his abrupt departure the night before when Athos strolled nonchalantly into the yard. He took one look at his friend and immediately lost some of his irritation to anxiousness - the man looked terrible. He and D’Artagnan both smelt of smoke and soot, and D’Artagnan was, not very subtly, trying to train himself not to continually take sidelong glances at Athos.

Clearly, something had happened, probably related to Athos’ distraction, and even more probably, nothing good. And so Aramis kept his mouth shut.

Porthos was less observant, and barely glanced up as Athos took his seat. “Should have let the Spanish kill him.” he grumbled.

Athos raised an eyebrow. Slavery was not a crime, no matter how barbaric it was, but the man had still broken an important trade treaty. “He won't be punished?”

“Rewarded.” chimed in D’Artagnan.

Aramis upended his wine and poured it on the dirt. “Well, here's to us dying on some battlefield while Bonnaire ends his days old and fat and rich” he said, bitterly.

“That man will go on to destroy thousands of lives and there's not a damn thing we can do to stop him.” Porthos said morosely.

This made Athos stop and think for a second… Why _shouldn’t_ they try and stop him?

Now that Athos was safely away from La Fère, his mind was clearer than it had been in days – even _with_ the revelation that Anne was not long dead as she was supposed to be. Athos was not ignorant of Aramis’ irritation, and he could not help but feel that he owed Porthos something. La Fère had got under his skin so much that he had almost sacrificed his brother to continue running from it.

He was not an eloquent man, and he was not sure he could apologise in words for his behaviour of the last few days. But perhaps – perhaps there _was_ something he could do to make amends… 

He ruminated over this for a few minutes, forming a plan in his head, before standing up and beckoning Aramis over to one corner of the yard, away from prying ears.

Aramis looked at him. “I don’t suppose you’re going to clear up the questions of the last few days, are you.”

It was not a question, but Athos felt compelled to reply. 

"It will not happen again." he offered, shaking his head and acutely aware that the tips of his ears had gone slightly red in shame.  It was a tell which Aramis knew well, and as Athos had never been particularly disposed to talk about things that bothered him, he resolved to say nothing more on the matter. It had been particularly out of character, after all, and taking in his friends' downbeaten look, Aramis felt compelled to offer support, not condemnation. Porthos was fine and fit, after all. There was no use in beating a dead horse.

Aramis nodded, and Athos, after acknowledging that he had been forgiven, took the opportunity to change the subject.

“I was thinking…” said Athos, “about Bonnaire.”

“Oh?” said Aramis, not really sure where this was going.

“Yes.” Athos cleared his throat. “And I think we should, er, _escort_ him to his ship in Le Havre. Make sure there’s no trouble for, er, _with_ the Spanish?”

Aramis blinked owlishly at his friend for a second. This was _Athos,_ possible the most duty driven man in the regiment, effectively suggesting… he suddenly caught sight of Porthos and D’Artagnan, both watching their exchange with interest.

Oh.

_Oh._

He grinned delightedly, and Athos raised a small smile in return. “Excellent idea, Monsieur la Comte.”

Athos rolled his eyes, but having obtained Aramis’ tacit agreement to the more controversial aspects of the plan, headed back over to the table where the others were sat.

“Gentlemen,” Athos said quietly, “I’m suddenly seized with the urge to visit Le Havre. It’s supposed to be beautiful at night.” he added pointedly.

“Yes,” said Aramis, “and I rather thought we might meet with a Monsieur Meunier on our way.”

“Interesting man. I _should_ rather enjoy a more in depth conversation with him.”

D’Artagnan had to stifle a fit of laughter at this exchange, which had been rather comical, and Porthos, noticing both men fix meaningful gazes on him at its end, felt a smile pulling at his lips as he realised what exactly Athos had suggested to Aramis...

* * *

The plan had been surprisingly easy to put together, and Treville had unknowingly given them the perfect circumstances with which to enact it – a patrol of the city walls, which gave all four of them an excuse to have their horses out of the stable – and then three days before they were expected to report in again.

No one would even notice they’d gone.

Paul Meunier, and their friendly Spanish Spy had both been agreeable to the plan, surprising absolutely no one, and now their group was sat in a dingy corner in the tavern which Bonnaire had chosen to gloat about his forthcoming good fortune.

"Tonight, my friends, the drinks are on me, the drinks are on me, for tomorrow, I set sail to a new and disgustingly prosperous life. Santé!" he cheered.

Porthos was sure that if the idea of Bonnaire getting his just deserves had not cheered him up considerably, he would have thrown away the plan there and then just to strangle the man with his bare hands.

Instead, he moved his hand to the hilt of his dagger, muscles tensed, ready to leap in to the next scene of the little play that they had arranged. Athos nodded at him approvingly. Had he been entertaining any doubts at all about what they were about to do, Porthos’ reaction would have dispelled them entirely.

And Bonnaire truly _was_ insufferable.

"We had a deal, Bonnaire" – Meunier had entered the tavern.

"Paul, is that you?" Bonnaire said, squinting into the dingy light to make out who had addressed him. "Yes, I have a new business partner now, Paul. You lay one finger on me you'll have the Cardinal to answer to."

Bonnaire’s good fortune had only served to increase his arrogance. Aramis was desperately trying to supress the smile that threatened to emerge at the idea of what was to happen next. It would not do to be grinning; he might give the ruse away entirely.

Meunier gestured to his men; that was the cue.

The Musketeers all got up from their table, and making sure their faces were blank masks, headed towards the disruption.

Bonnaire was blustering. “Er, well I’m sure that we can settle this like men of honour…”

Athos stepped in, drawing his sword with an uncharacteristic flourish. Knowing that this was not a real dispute, and instead, a total farce, was stopping him from taking it _quite_ as seriously as usual, and he could not help hamming it up a bit.

“Attack Bonnaire and you attack the King.” he proclaimed.

“Why are we doing this?” protested Porthos loudly, not having to fake his anger at all. “He's scum, he's a slaver!”

“He’s under our protection.” interrupted D’Artagnan, sternly.

“Protection be damned!” Porthos exclaimed. 

Aramis chose this moment to step in. “We have our orders, we obey them,” he said casually.

“I'll kill you too,” said Porthos, narrowing his eyes at Aramis, “you get in my way…”

Aramis had to bite his cheeks to stop from laughing at the look on Porthos’ face. They were all enjoying this far too much.

“Oh yeah?”  he said, and the two men began scuffling in the tavern, staggering from side to side and generally causing chaos.

Athos rolled his eyes at the spectacle. They were all enjoying this far too much.

“Gentlemen, GENTLEMEN!” he cried, eager to finish the scene before something happened which none of them had anticipated. “Bonnaire, there's a ship waiting for you in the harbour, D’Artagnan will show you. Hurry and you might live. “

Bonnaire, looking for all the world like a frightened rabbit, scurried out of the door behind the young Gascon, having to take two steps for every one of D’Artagnan’s strides.

All was silent for a moment, and then he turned around to smirk at his companions.

It had gone without a hitch.

* * *

D’Artagnan, still smirking at Bonnaire’s squeaked, “Wait!” as he realised that he’d been had, stepped back into the tavern to find it a much more peaceful place than it had been when he left it.

Athos was finishing his business with Meunier, and Porthos was bantering and laughing loudly with Aramis.

The sound made his heart sing. Porthos was usually such a jovial man that the past few days had seemed very strange without it.

“So, as far as the cardinal is concerned, the Spanish kidnapped Bonnaire” said Athos, turning back to his companions.

“…and spirited him away!” added Aramis.

“Embarrassing. But there's not much he can do about it,” said Porthos.

“Godspeed Bonnaire, may your time in a Spanish prison be long and uneventful,” Aramis said.

“Let’s see him adapt to those circumstances!” Porthos chortled.

* * *

Riding back to Paris, Athos pulled up alongside Porthos, who had once again fallen silent as soon as they had left the walls of the port city.

“I’m sorry, my friend.” he said. He felt much better for helping Bonnaire escape but needed to apologise properly.

“What for?” asked Porthos.

Athos floundered a bit at that. “Everything,” he said lamely. “Your injury…” he trailed off.

“Oh, that. Aramis told me.” replied Porthos, easily, “don’t worry about it. You’d never have let me die. Aramis knows that, too, I think.”

Athos inclined his head. He would like to believe that Porthos was right.

“You are alright?” he asked, changing the subject.

“Mmm.” Porthos hummed in reply, giving no answer one way or the other. “I just…” he looked unsurely over at Athos and fell silent.

“Go on,” said Athos.

“I just feel like – with Bonnaire - it’s a bit of a hollow victory, you know?”

Athos knew what he meant. “Because one less slave trader makes no real impact?”

Porthos nodded.

“But that’s thousands of lives, Porthos.” Athos was awkward in offering words of comfort, but offered them nonetheless. “Slavery still continues, but thousands will slip through the net because there’s one less Bonnaire to watch out for.”

“Thankyou,” Porthos replied. “For doing it in the first place.”

“Of course,” said Athos stiltedly.

They rode on for a few minutes in silence, with only the hum of Aramis and D’Artagnan’s conversation a little way behind them to break the quiet.

“Race you,” grinned Porthos, and took off.

Athos rolled his eyes, but could not refuse the challenge, and took off after him, ignoring the laughter that followed. Tomorrow, life would go on, and he'd be back to dwelling on the chains his actions had forged for himself. 

But now, they galloped on home, towards Paris, relishing, for the moment, the freedom that life gave them. 

**Author's Note:**

> My second attempt at a multi-chap in an effort to finish my series. I had a bit of a hard time writing the ending to this one, but I don't like to leave a story unfinished, so although I'm not totally happy with it, I hope it rounds off the story satisfactorily.
> 
> As always criticism is welcomed if it’s constructive and helps my writing to improve!


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